


[C] In the Afters

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abuse, Discussion of Abortion, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Moving On, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 11:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Aziraphale has been enduring Sandalphon's abuse for centuries. He's become so used to it, he's almost gotten himself to believe that things are fine. When Sandalphon does the unthinkable, and Aziraphale finds himself pregnant--he finally decides that it's not fine. In a sudden rush of freedom, Aziraphale tells Crowley everything. In the aftermath of it, he finds that Crowley doesn't care about the past: only the future that they can share.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sandalphon/Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 198





	[C] In the Afters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fanlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanlan/gifts).

> This was another one of those things that I'll put in my "make Sandalphon the generic enemy and save Gabriel" pocket, because I believe I am correct.
> 
> Nothing in the fic is overly explicit, but the themes are. So, just heed that in mind.

Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten a moment of it. Not since the first time it happened, decades ago, and not now. Not now, that it led him to where he was, gripping the edges of a toilet and dry heaving—he hadn’t eaten in days, but his body didn’t understand. His body was painfully, dreadfully human. It reacted in all the ways appropriate, and Aziraphale couldn’t ignore it. But he _wanted_ to ignore it. He wanted to wish it away, but he couldn’t. All it might have taken was a miracle, one measly little miracle, but Aziraphale had never had the mettle for killing things. Not once. Not on purpose. Not when he knew what might become of it.

He could still feel Sandalphon’s hands on his skin, his nails dragging long and angry marks down the white of him. At least that time there had been a bed, but Aziraphale could still feel the magic that wound around his wrists, kept them together and tied strictly to the headboard. It was humiliating. Not just how he’d been set up on his hands and knees, but how he hadn’t even tried to fight Sandalphon away. He’d learned by then how poor a consequence there was for fighting; when Sandalphon commanded he kneel on all fours, he did just that.

Then, the magic cut into his wrists and trapped him where he was. An Archangel’s magic, and Aziraphale had been helpless to do anything about it. The only power he still had, in his presentation, was just _how_ he presented himself. Always, _always,_ with a cock. It had amused Sandalphon how Aziraphale would struggle, how he would never find release. As long as Sandalphon was _amused_, Aziraphale thought he was safe from anything more. That day had been different, just slightly. When Sandalphon’s hands roamed down over Aziraphale’s arse cheeks, spread them, he hummed in annoyance.

“Don’t you find this all rather boring?” he asked. Aziraphale gasped at the swipe of his thumb, dragging over the puckered hole.

“Wh-whatever do you mean?” Aziraphale asked. He _had_ to ask. If he stayed quiet, Sandalphon would strike him and tighten the binds on his body.

“I am only thinking of your enjoyment, my little bird. Mine, too, of course.” Sandalphon chuckled. “But yours is my concern. Have you never had a cunt before?”

Aziraphale bit into his lip.

“I asked you a question,” Sandalphon said, and his voice was punctuated with the sudden slap of his hand. Aziraphale yelped.

“I have—I have,” Aziraphale replied quickly. “I have.”

“Don’t you think I deserve to see it? I’ve been so good to you, after all.”

Aziraphale whimpered and buried his face into his forearms. He didn’t want to. He’d had a cunt, but only for his own enjoyment. There hadn’t been a single moment he’d invited someone into his bed. Someone had _stolen_ his bed, and he would never want to ruin what little of himself he had left. But his wants had hardly mattered. Sandalphon’s hand continued in a smooth slide down the curve of Aziraphale’s arse, until he could fit it between the thick of his thighs and grab at his limp prick.

“I suppose,” Sandalphon said, “I wasn’t asking.”

Aziraphale bit into his arm rather than complain, rather than shout. He felt as Sandalphon’s magic coursed through him, and his prick was pressed back inside of his body. Then, his bollocks. Until Aziraphale had nothing but a smooth, sexless mound. Sandalphon’s fingernail followed then in a straight line, and Aziraphale’s body did just as he bade it too. It bloomed open into a pretty, fat pair of labia, a heavy clit, and an already dripping hole. The sudden shock of arousal shot through Aziraphale’s spine. He couldn’t contain the muffled moan.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Sandalphon grinned. “Oh, and look at you. So wet for me already, you are. Such a good little girl.”

Aziraphale cried the whole way through. He cried when Sandalphon took him, and he cried when Sandalphon struck him. He cried when Sandalphon _spoke_ to him, all those nasty things he said. He’d cried harder when Sandalphon’s hand roamed over the mound of his vulva; he’d left it hairless, whispered how good of a _little girl_ Aziraphale was when his hand traveled higher. Aziraphale even thought to struggle when he felt Sandalphon’s magic again, but there was no use. There had never been any use for struggling. What’s done was done.

“Maybe you’ll be calling me _daddy_ soon,” Sandalphon whispered. “I’m told you might like that.”

Aziraphale cried hard when Sandalphon came. It was always fast, always heavy and unpleasant. And just like that, Sandalphon was always gone. He pulled away, straightened his clothes back up, and left with all his magic. Aziraphale had been left in the bed, naked, to lay in the filth that Sandalphon made sure was always there. Just for the fun of it, he’d said once. He liked to see just what kind of a whore he’d turned Aziraphale into.

Now, a month later, Aziraphale was clinging to the sides of the toilet and wishing he could just vomit _something_. Angels weren’t made to vomit, though. This wasn’t something that they did, not usually. The few times Aziraphale had managed it, he’d always had something hefty to eat that day or the day before. As it was, now, he hadn’t eaten a single thing for days. His body reacted all the same, and he didn’t blame it. Whether or not this was any normal reaction—he would have done the same, when he saw what he’d seen.

What was worse was that it had been a month. Exactly a month. Sandalphon would be at the shop today for his _dues. _He called them that like it was something Aziraphale owed him. He’d given Aziraphale a set of instructions, this time, and Aziraphale hadn’t had the strength to follow a one of them. He’d been hunched over in the bathroom since he woke up for the past three days, never once finding the relief of just ending the heaving with a nice and proper vomit. He was running out of time before Sandalphon arrived, and all he had was a little plastic thing to console him.

A little plastic thing with a plus sign.

Maybe the only reason a human test had been able to tell him, so definitively, his life sentence was because he expected it to be able to, but he didn’t care for the reasons and the whys. Only that the thing had told him he was pregnant. Whatever cruel little trick Sandalphon had played for his own amusement, his own sick _pleasures_, had resulted in something real, Painfully, horridly real, and just a month old. Probably not even a real baby, yet, if Aziraphale knew as much as he thought he did about development.

It wouldn’t have been a horrible thing to just rid himself of some extra cells, extra body parts. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t _bear_ the thought, even if he knew where it came from. Just _who__’d_ put it there. Maybe Sandalphon hadn’t even known that it would happen, but it disgusted Aziraphale all the same. He wished he’d done something. Wished that he’d had help. All of his chances for hoping and helping were gone. He needed to pick himself off the floor and meet Sandalphon. Maybe he’d get lucky.

Aziraphale did what he could to pull himself together and headed down to the first floor of the shop. He had only minutes to close the shop; thankfully, he never had many customers to begin with. There wasn’t a soul in the shop but him, when he descended, and all he had to do was lock the door and turn the sign. Closed for lunch, a special occasion. He’d answered the question a few times for an annoyed customer. No one was around to be annoyed, this time. It was just Aziraphale and this new baby. Growing inside of him.

He barely had the time to straighten his waistcoat before there was a surge of magic behind him. Aziraphale didn’t dare turn around to see, just stood stiff until he felt Sandalphon’s hands at his shoulders. They squeezed tightly; to anyone else, it might just look like Sandalphon had offered him a massage, but there were nails digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his coats. When Sandalphon pressed close, it was not for a sweet kiss, but to grin against Aziraphale’s ear, something menacing.

“You didn’t do as I instructed, little bird.” Sandalphon said.

“I know, and I’m very sorry—” Aziraphale managed to escape the grasp, to whirl around to face Sandalphon. His words died when he saw Sandalphon. It wasn’t often that Sandalphon frowned; he was always smiling in some way or another. It was never a very happy smile, but the type of smile a man wore when he had something to hide, something to say. Something of something, indeed. When Sandalphon frowned, it never meant anything of a particular good.

“I remember leaving you with very explicit instructions.”

“You did, and if you’d just wait a moment—”

“And now you think I have to listen to you? What sort of delusions have you been telling yourself? Is a month too long for you, little bird? Do you need me to put you in your place more often?” Sandalphon stalked closer. “I’m a very busy man, you know. But if you need to be disciplined more often, I think I can manage something special for you—” Sandalphon struck Aziraphale across the face, then. Hard enough to send him to the floor. When he came closer, ready for the second strike, that was when Aziraphale shouted.

“No—no, please! Don’t—you’ll hurt the baby!” Aziraphale shouted. He’d clambered back against a bookshelf and waited for the next strike. It never came. When he lowered his arm, shot up only out of instinct to protect himself, Sandalphon was staring at him. Frowning. “Please,” Aziraphale breathed.

“The baby,” Sandalphon repeated. “You mean to tell me after our little _game_ last month, you went off and got pregnant?”

“N-No! No,” Aziraphale shook his head. “It’s yours. It’s yours, I promise—I’ve never—” Sandalphon raised a finger to his lips, and Aziraphale silenced himself.

“I always knew you were easy,” Sandalphon marveled, “but all it takes is one go at your quim, and you’re pregnant.”

“I—”

“You must have thought that a clever way to send me off, didn’t you?” Sandalphon bent down to kneel eye-level with Aziraphale. “I suppose there wouldn’t be a child if it wasn’t the Almighty’s Will, though.”

“Wh-what will you do?” Aziraphale asked.

“I think I’ll be back for my child when it’s born. I’ll take it to Heaven, where an angel belongs. From there, I suppose it all depends on how strong the child is. You may be useful after all,” Sandalphon said, taking Aziraphale by the chin. “If it’s strong, I think I’ll take you to Heaven, too. I’m sure the other Archangels would love a chance to breed you.” Sandalphon dropped away his hand and stood, disregarding the look of fear that spread over Aziraphale’s face.

“I’ll keep it a secret until then,” Sandalphon grinned. “Do take care of yourself, little bird. I wouldn’t want my child harmed, as you say.” He waved with a wide stretched grin and a wiggle of his fingers, then vanished.

Aziraphale didn’t start to cry until he knew Sandalphon was gone and would stay gone. Only once he was assured of that did Aziraphale begin to sob. Strength had left his entire body without a way off the floor; all he could manage was to curl tighter into the bookshelf and _cry._ It was all he could do with the threat Sandalphon had left him. Maybe it meant he would be left alone until the baby was born, but that didn’t mean anything had _ended_. Sandalphon had left him with an even greater threat than before. Not just to abuse him, hurt him, _rape_ him—but to let the other angels do it, too. Almighty in Heaven, he knew they would take the offer.

He couldn’t remember just how long had passed before he finally gathered a hold of himself and wiped at his eyes. He pulled himself to his feet and adjusted his clothes. He felt such a fool for his display, but even an angel was allowed a moment of weakness. He had to be allowed at least that. No one had been around to see it, either, which meant that he was fine. Everything was properly in its place, and Aziraphale was fine. He was as fine as he’d ever been, in fact. Sandalphon hadn’t harmed him, after all.

Except, Aziraphale wasn’t fine. He felt weak, defeated. Humans got rid of unwanted children all the time—but they were unwanted. Even if Aziraphale was carrying _Sandalphon__’s_ child, that didn’t mean he didn’t want just the child. Maybe he’d dreamed more of little red-headed children than he did of brunets, but it was still a _child_. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to harm it even if he tried, because he did want it. It pained him more than he needed it to, to admit that to himself, but he had to admit it. He wanted this child. He could only pray it looked like him.

When the phone rang, Aziraphale didn’t answer. He didn’t re-open the shop. He didn’t so much as look at a single book of his own. Instead, he had a brief thought to go out on his own, for a little while. Maybe he would be able to locate some books on parenting, on pregnancy. He didn’t know many angels who’d ever been pregnant. In fact, he knew zero. The only thing that stopped him was the sudden wash of nausea and the very fact that human pregnancy couldn’t exactly compare to angel pregnancy.

Well, he did have a human body. There may be more comparisons than he was willing to believe. But for one more day, he wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. He wanted to pretend that Sandalphon hadn’t done this to him, even if it meant sleeping the day away and spiraling farther downward to the bottom of something, something, something. He hadn’t even had a bedroom until this whole thing started, and where it should have been a horrid reminder of the things Sandalphon did, Aziraphale found comfort in the plush of his own sheets.

The second day in bed, he heard the phone ring. He didn’t answer. He didn’t open the shop. And he didn’t go out to look at parenting books.

The third day in bed, he heard the phone ring. He didn’t answer. He didn’t open the shop. And he didn’t go out to look at parenting books.

So on, then, with the fourth and the fifth. He hadn’t eaten the entire time, either. Not so much as a glass of water. Aziraphale was quite thankful that his corporation didn’t require food to run, even if he enjoyed partaking in that particular pleasure. None of it felt quite right without Crowley, and so far, he had no intentions of ever seeing Crowley. Not until this was over. Eventually, Aziraphale figured he wouldn’t be able to avoid explaining what happened. Crowley couldn’t be an option.

The sixth day posed an issue, though. The phone rang more times than it had before, and even though Aziraphale had finally pulled himself back up to his feet, he hadn’t answered. He still hadn’t opened the shop. For what he’d endured, Aziraphale figured he deserved a bit of a vacation to sort himself out. He’d have the next—however long an angel’s pregnancy would last—away from Sandalphon. He had that long to figure out what he was going to do, and just how it was going to continue.

There would be no running from Sandalphon. Somehow, he always knew where Aziraphale was. It wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibilities that he was using Heaven’s resources to locate him. Getting rid of the baby was a clear negative, however much it might appear on the surface to help his situation. Now that Sandalphon _knew_, Aziraphale feared for the worst. Which left a strange option of doing something to Sandalphon. Aziraphale hadn’t done anything so far—and he wondered if he was even strong enough to do anything.

Whatever it was he planned to do; he wouldn’t be able to do on his own. And still, the idea of contacting Crowley left a foul taste in his mouth. He and Crowley had been progressing along quite well, and the very notion of this circumstance seemed to threaten to turn it all upside down.

Some time after noon, the phone stopped ringing. Sometime just after noon, the door opened. Aziraphale was sure that he’d locked it, which meant one of two things. Someone had really taken the time to break into the bookshop, or it was someone who wasn’t entirely bound by physical things like locks. Aziraphale hoped for the former but saw Crowley when he rounded out into the middle of the room. His heart dropped into his stomach. Crowley.

Crowley was looking anything other than pleased, though angry wasn’t quite a word for it either. If Aziraphale thought anything well of himself, the way he was now, he might have even thought Crowley was worried. Crowley was, indeed, worried. It always shone a bit strange on his face, with the angles and the demon thing. Still, it was there, hidden behind the grasps of his sunglasses. Seeing Aziraphale seemed enough to erase any notion of lifting his glasses, because that might reveal he was more than worried. Just worried might have even been a bit of an insult.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice shaky, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Can’t see why not. I’ve only been trying to phone you for the past _week_,” Crowley replied, a bit of bite. “Not that you’ve answered.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy what? Selling books?” Crowley tilted his head. “Nothing looks any different.”

“Yes, well, I suppose not to _you_.” Aziraphale folded his hands in front of himself. Something certainly _felt_ different.

“Aziraphale—I was worried about you. I think I’m allowed to a bit concerned. We’d planned for lunch on Tuesday. You didn’t show up. You don’t answer my calls—” Crowley stopped and stared for a long moment. Aziraphale had _flinched_ with the raise of his voice. He’d actually flinched. Like he thought Crowley was getting angry, and that if Crowley got angry, something was going to happen. And in that moment of staring, Crowley realized something equally as horrid.

“Angel, what’s that on your face?” he asked, poking to his own cheek to mimic the place of the color. A dull, purple thing spouting on Aziraphale’s cheek and over his jaw. Aziraphale covered it immediately. And it ached.

“I believe I tripped the other day.”

“You don’t trip. I think in six-thousand years, I’ve never seen you so much as stumble.” When Crowley took a step forward, Aziraphale took a step back.

“Smacked into a bookshelf,” Aziraphale laughed. “Can you believe it? Clumsy me.”

“Angel—”

“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“If someone’s _hurting_ you—”

“No!” Aziraphale reacted quickly, and he flinched again. Actually flinched and backed up into a bookshelf like he was terrified, with his arms wrapped around himself. “I’m fine, Crowley, I’m—”

“You’re not,” Crowley said plainly. “There’s a bruise on your face, and you look like you think I’m about to hit you. Aziraphale, I would _never_ hurt you—don’t you know that?”

“I—I do,” Aziraphale straightened. “I do.”

“Then what is going on? You look dreadful, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched a small smile. “I feel dreadful,” he said. He felt safe, all of the sudden. Crowley was his friend. Crowley had been his friend for ages, and that wouldn’t change just for some shortcomings. Crowley would stay with him and maybe help him—but he wouldn’t if Aziraphale didn’t ask. Aziraphale needed to explain the whole situation to him, if they were to get anywhere. He took a deep breath.

“Might we sit down, my dear?” he asked. He gestured towards the sofa, and Crowley shrugged in his little way that meant it was of no consequence. He sat down on the sofa, and Aziraphale followed shortly.

It was always an interesting thing, especially now. Aziraphale had always sat rather properly, but he’d never sat small. He always took up the space that he took up, and he didn’t at that moment. Crowley tended to keep most of the sofa to himself, the way that his legs spread out and his arms draped, but he’d never taken more room than he should. Even now, where the physicality of their placement was no different than it might have been else, Aziraphale looked small. He felt small. He seemed to curl in on himself.

Crowley didn’t say anything, but he did set his sunglasses off on the desk. He shifted a bit to give Aziraphale more room, but it didn’t help him relax. Crowley even thought that he looked pale, more pale than usual. Like he hadn’t been eating or taking care of himself. There were wrinkles in his coat that didn’t belong there, and his hair sat in just different enough way that Crowley noticed. There wasn’t a thing Crowley didn’t notice, but he didn’t mention any of it, either. It wasn’t his job to accuse, here, just to listen. He was always good at listening.

They sat there in silence for a long time. Aziraphale rolled his thumbs together and kept his hands close, arms tightly pressed to his sides. He stared at the floor, of all things, and refused to even turn a degree towards Crowley. In that silence, Crowley had nothing left to do but stare, to watch every single little movement that Aziraphale made. Everything seemed very protective. Aziraphale wanted to keep himself safe, that much was obviously. Painfully obvious, maybe. That, and the mark on his face had the severe similarity to a hand.

Finally, Aziraphale sighed. “You were right. Someone is—_was_ hurting me. Was.”

Crowley nodded. He didn’t say anything, fearful that he might choose to say the _wrong_ thing.

“It—I, well,” Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath through his nose. “I don’t know how to say this. It’s been happening for so long—it just feels, well,” he sniffed, “normal.”

“Being hurt isn’t normal, angel. Not even for me, and I’m a demon. Don’t think angels are supposed to think it’s normal, either.”

“Yes, well. It’s been going on for some time. I guess I said that, though, didn’t I?” Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, well. Yes.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley trailed off. “Talk to me.”

They’d been friends for centuries, millennia. They were maybe even more than that, though it wasn’t something they talked about, often. It was easier to continue in the fashion that they did, in which everything was a comfortable facet of routine. It familiar. It meant they didn’t have to talk about the things that had happened before, because they weren’t things that fit into routine. Routine had come to involve some rather unpleasant things, and now with it all about to air, Aziraphale wish he’d said something sooner.

“You remember Sandalphon, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded. “He’s been keeping tabs of sorts, I suppose. On me, I mean. At first, it was just strongly worded notes.”

“Your kind do like those notes.”

“Yes, well. It changed. The notes stopped coming. Sandalphon _did_ come, though. A whole new ‘at first’,” Aziraphale grinned, but it was pained. “He just wanted to rough me up, a bit. I suppose someone got wind that I haven’t been a very good angel, and he was on some mission to put me back in my place. I could deal with the bruises and the ache, even after he’d started using magic to do them. Makes them last longer, I suppose.” Aziraphale dragged his hand over the mark on his face, and something unpleasant settled in Crowley’s gut.

“Eventually, well. He got rather handsy,” Aziraphale stiffened. “Below the belt, if you know what I mean.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Until recently, I thought I had it under control. He would hurt me, yes, but I was _fine._ The bruises went away, the ache subsided. Even the fault seemed to dissipate, after a while. I could convince myself that doing nothing to stop him was to defend myself, not that I was, well. Letting him have me.

“Now, though, well. Things aren’t quite as easy. I didn’t realize that there was magic to force an effort, I suppose. It was like he—Sandalphon changed my body without my consent or my assistance. He just made it do what he wanted, and now I’m rather afraid I have to face the consequences.”

“The consequences?” Crowley cringed.

“I’m pregnant, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered as Crowley’s face fell. “With Sandalphon’s child.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Please,” Aziraphale closed his eyes, gripped his fists. Like he couldn’t bear to hear a thing Crowley had to say, but Crowley had to say it anyway. He scooted closer so he could put his hand over Aziraphale’s, where he felt them tremble.

“It’s not your fault, angel,” Crowley’s voice was a mere whisper. “I can’t imagine what you were going through, and I won’t try, but it’s not your fault. It’s _his_ fault—Hell, it’s Heaven’s fault. Shouldn’t have let that shit be going on—something you expect my lot to do, really. Most of them aren’t creative enough.”

“Crowley.”

“Sorry,” Crowley sighed. “It’s not your fault. If I ever see the fucker, I’m going to end him myself. Waste of space, he is.”

“I should have said something,” Aziraphale sighed. He felt lighter. “I should have called, I should have told you—”

“You just did, angel. You told me.”

Aziraphale was crying before he’d even looked at Crowley, who didn’t hesitate to open his arms and let Aziraphale crash into his chest. Crowley held him close, rubbing smooth little circles into his back, and rested his chin into Aziraphale’s hair. Tears prickled against the exposed skin of his chest, but he didn’t care. Crowley just closed his eyes and held as tightly as he could.

“Whatever you need, Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, “I’ll be here to help. I won’t let you do this alone.”

Aziraphale pulled back. “Crowley—you don’t know what you’re saying. Sandalphon plans to come back for the baby—_my_ baby.”

“Then let him come,” Crowley muttered, but there was a growl somewhere in his throat. He pulled Aziraphale back into his chest. “I’ll kill him.”

Anytime else, Aziraphale might have argued. Killing was a horrible answer to any situation, but he’d thought it, himself. There was no way that Heaven would stop this—they wouldn’t even _believe_ it was happening. Sandalphon’s word against his? Aziraphale would sound like a regretful, fowl little thing who was trying to escape responsibility. And what awful stories they were for humans, he couldn’t imagine seeing it in Heaven. He knew they would, though. They would believe Sandalphon’s horrible story about how Aziraphale wanted this, and Aziraphale would be worse off than he was now.

Instead of arguing, Aziraphale held tightly to Crowley. He buried his face into Crowley’s neck, wrapped his arms around Crowley’s middle. Crowley smelled like that warm and comforting scene Aziraphale always liked int he wintertime, where the fire was running low, but the warmth had spread out through the room. Crowley felt like that, too. It didn’t feel right to jump too quickly from this to that feeling of home, but Aziraphale wanted to revel in it for as long as he could.

“Don’t leave me, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” came the reply, Crowley’s hand in Aziraphale’s hair.

It was four months and some odd days later that Crowley noticed a change. He always prided himself on noticing the changes in Aziraphale, from the wrinkles in his clothes to the style of his hair, the bags around his eyes. This change had been so subtle, Crowley had barely noticed. He’d come into the shop with a bag of things and then made his way upstairs, to where Aziraphale had miracled up more free space for the baby to have a place to stay. The confidence that the baby would be staying was a powerful thing, and Crowley had certainly noticed how it improved Aziraphale’s mood.

Once Crowley had dropped the bag off, full of little things like wall decals and a stuffed snake, he’d turned to see Aziraphale. Aziraphale had been trying, painstakingly, to put a crib together. He wanted to do things properly, and humans had to do all these things by hand. It may take him hours to make the crib, but he wanted to. He was desperate to, and he was doing quite the phenomenal job. It was, in fact, nearly completed. Crowley had only been gone for roughly an hour and a half; he’d stopped to pick up lunch but left that downstairs.

Aziraphale set down the piece he was working with and pulled himself to his feet, and it was quite the effort. When he turned to greet Crowley, he might have said something. Crowley wasn’t listening. He was too busy _staring._ He remembered when he’d first barged into the shop to see Aziraphale pale and upset. Now, his skin was red again, and he was smiling. But more than that. It wasn’t that he’d regained what weight Crowley was sure he’d lost; it was that there was _extra_ weight.

“—do you think so, Crowley?” Aziraphale finished.

“Yeah, yeah. Wonderful. You’ve done a great job,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale’s nose crinkled. “I was asking about lunch, my dear—”

“You’re showing,” Crowley said. He still hadn’t raised his eyes away from Aziraphale’s stomach. “You’ve got a little baby bump, there.”

“Do I? No,” Aziraphale looked down. “I believe I’m just eating more.”

“No, that’s not right. Come here,” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and dragged him through the room, over to the side where had a standing, full length, antique looking mirror.

Crowley set to work positioning Aziraphale in front of the mirror so he could see himself, like it might help him see himself the way Crowley could see him. Aziraphale looked less than convinced and didn’t further argue when Crowley took off his vest. Aziraphale had taken to wearing lighter clothes, considering how hot he found himself getting. Now, he was left in a button up short, where the sleeves had been rolled to his elbows. Still, Aziraphale didn’t look very convinced.

“Crowley, I think you’re seeing things.”

“Take off your shirt,” Crowley said. “It’s there. I want you to see it too.”

“Crowley, I really don’t think—” Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley and stopped short. Crowley was _pleading_, with his eyes. But more than that, his eyes had gone a solid gold, his pupils blown. Whatever it was Aziraphale was refusing to see, and he was refusing to see it, had Crowley bent out of shape on absolute joy. Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back towards the mirror.

He began with the top button, as was acceptable, and slowly made his way through all of them. Each button felt like the drop of a bomb, when it poked back through its partnered eye. Aziraphale didn’t take his eyes off the mirror, not even once. Through it, he stared back at Crowley, who returned the gaze with something primal.

Aziraphale had asked Crowley not to leave him, and Crowley had gone above and beyond. He’d been there. He’d stayed nights at the bookshop, if Aziraphale needed him to. There hadn’t been an errand Crowley wouldn’t run, a recipe he wouldn’t make, and a laugh he wouldn’t share. He’d been Aziraphale’s support through everything, and now, he only wanted Aziraphale to see something wonderful. Maybe he wanted to see it himself, more than he could admit allowed. But he’d been there. Through all of it. They both deserved this.

When came time to brush the shirt from his shoulders, Crowley helped. Neither of them noticed as the shirt hit the floor, too busy staring at the mirror. Without fabric to cover it, to hide, Aziraphale couldn’t deny it. There was, in fact, a firm bump in his stomach that hadn’t been there before. He was rounder than usual. He hadn’t eaten enough for this, and even if he had, it would have looked different. This—this was his baby. Growing inside of him. Large enough to make itself known, now, and Aziraphale was starting to wish he knew what it was. A boy or a girl.

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered longer at his chest, though. He’d never been particularly thin or flat, it just wasn’t his style, but his chest had never looked quite like _that_. Like his pectorals had swollen past their normal size. He wondered if it looked strange, or if it felt strange. He’d nearly forgotten Crowley was there when he reached for his own chest, cupping the new swell of his right tit and gasping at the slight ache to it.

“Crowley, is this supposed to happen?”

“Haven’t the faintest, angel. I—” Crowley looked quite like he had to physically muster the courage to continue. “You look good,” he settled.

“I suppose my body might intend to nurse the child,” Aziraphale laughed lightly. “If I even get to keep it past birth.”

“I told you. I’ll kill the bastard if he ever comes back. Sandalphon can try all he wants, but he can’t take our baby.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. Crowley’s did, too, but he’d said it already. He couldn’t just take it back. All he could do was stare when Aziraphale turned to face him, that same, wide-eyed innocent glance over his face. Crowley felt his heart ache; everything about Aziraphale had always been beautiful, but nothing had been _this_ beautiful. He could already see it: Aziraphale nestled up in the armchair Crowley had lugged up into the tiny little nursery with a baby on his teat. Crowley gulped.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “What did you just say?”

Crowley shook his head. “I think I’ve just realized something,” he said. “I’m a bit terrified, so I might need your help.”

“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his own.

“I think I’ve gone and fallen again. Fallen in love, I mean.” Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “With you.”

“Oh, Crowley—” Aziraphale gasped when Crowley squeezed his hands.

“I love you, angel. If you’ll have me. Please, if you’ll have me, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of your child. I’ll—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale shushed him. “You already take such good care of me. I rather think I’ve gone and done a bad thing too. Falling, I mean. In love.”

“With me?” Crowley asked, his voice an unsure squeak.

“With you,” Aziraphale responded.

Crowley leaned closer, hesitantly, but he pressed his lips to Aziraphale. It was a quiet, chaste sort of kiss where the press of lips was the only thing that mattered. It was just knowing that the other was there, reciprocating, existing—nothing else mattered. Even if there was certainly a thought at the back of Crowley’s head to put his arms around Aziraphale and take as deep a kiss as he could get, to put his hands on Aziraphale. It wasn’t the time. It was a chaste and quiet kiss, and when Crowley pulled away, they stared at each other.

“I’m stupid,” Crowley muttered. “Stupid with it—joy, I guess. I’m happy, Aziraphale. We’re going to have a baby.”

Aziraphale laughed to himself and smiled so widely his eyes creased up. “Yes, we are, Crowley. We’re going to have a baby.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders then and pulled him close, taking in a deep breath of him. “I can’t wait to think that one day we could have another.”

“That one might even be yours.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, angel,” Crowley said. He pulled back enough that he could put his hands on Aziraphale’s stomach, to feel the bump that he could see. “This one is mine.”

Aziraphale was quick to wipe at his eyes, but that wouldn’t stop the trickle of tears. He hadn’t thought about the inevitable return of Sandalphon in four months, and he realized just exactly why. It wasn’t how preoccupied he was; it was how safe he felt. Crowley took care of him. Crowley had taken care of him for all this time, and he wouldn’t stop taking care of him. He’d even just _admitted_—this baby was his. He didn’t think of Sandalphon anymore than Aziraphale did, no more than just a nagging fly to get rid of.

They were going to have a baby. Sandalphon wouldn’t ever get a chance to take it. He couldn’t take what wasn’t his, after all, and Aziraphale could already see how hard Crowley would fight for his child. If he would fight like this for a baby he must have known, in his heart, wasn’t _truly_ his—Aziraphale could only imagine what he would do for a child that was his. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a difference, because that conviction in his eyes meant Crowley really had already decided that this child was his. Truly his.

“I think it’s a girl,” Crowley said, suddenly. “Hair like yours, I bet. Eyes are a tossup.”

Aziraphale snorted a laugh. “I hope they’re blue, then.”

“Yeah. Blue’s a good color.” Crowley looked squarely at Aziraphale, to watch the movements of his face, as he ran his hands up Aziraphale’s body. He smoothed over the roundness of his belly, up over his ribs, to the swell of his tits. Aziraphale didn’t so much as flinch when Crowley’s hands brushed there, over his nipples, to rest on his collarbone.

It was Aziraphale who started their kiss, this time, and it was deeper. It was more than just a press. A movement. A dance. A coupling. Aziraphale’s hands wrapped around Crowley’s and pushed them down to rest on his hips. There was no urgency, just the need to feel close. As close as they could be; closer meant safer, and Aziraphale wanted to fee this safety for as long as he could. He _loved_ Crowley. He wasn’t letting that go.

Eventually, they would part. Crowley would painstakingly, sweetly dress Aziraphale in his shirt, whispering all sorts of things that were unfounded for a demon to say. Things like Aziraphale was lovely, perfect. That he would make an unparalleled mother. That Crowley was the luckiest thing alive to be able to do this with him. Once the shirt was on, the compliments stopped, and Crowley made a rather cunning suggestion to leave the nursery for a bit in favor of lunch.

“I’ve got some baby books, too,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale didn’t rightly believe him, but Crowley didn’t have as many conditioned aversions. If Crowley wanted a frivolous miracle, there wasn’t a demon who could stop him. There wasn’t an angel, either, because Aziraphale wouldn’t think to do so. He liked the idea of curling up on the couch with sushi take-out and reading whatever book Crowley had managed to make appear. Might there even be talk of baby names, Aziraphale thought he would burst with his own happiness.

It was the new and comfortable routine he had to look forward to, and he would look forward to it forever. He could already see the future on that sofa, in which he was curled up into Crowley’s side, their new baby propped between them, and a book in Crowley’s hands. Whatever it was they chose to read, they would all read. Maybe while the baby was too young to understand, Aziraphale would get to read the books he loved. He would get to share them with Crowley, to make silly little remarks at his child and watch it giggle with excitement. When it was old enough, they would swap to baby books, and Aziraphale would teach her how to read.

Her. Yes. Aziraphale decided somewhere between the third and fourth sushi roll that it was a girl, and he was already listing the books he would read to her. She would be a fan of the classics and the moderns. Just like her father, she would love to garden. Crowley would teach her that. Aziraphale was sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

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